


On Being Good

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Cock Warming, Daddy Kink, Extramarital Affairs, M/M, Power Imbalance, Rough Oral Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 23:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20786954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Frank needs to be taken care of, and there's only one man he's ever trusted well enough to do it properly.





	On Being Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ahimsabitches](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/gifts).

> There's probably a billion things wrong with how i handled like... 'life on a military base' or whatever, but facts is I don't care. 
> 
> For godssakes read the tags before consuming.

Maria had once said that he deserved to find pleasure where he could. She said, if he found someone who made him feel good, he should chase them. Hold on to them tight, let them take care of him over here, where she couldn’t. 

Frank thanks God, or whoever it is responsible for setting this shit all in motion, for bringing her into his life. No one else, he thinks, would ever understand him the way she does and still agree to marry him. 

When he told her about Schoonover, she hadn’t been altogether surprised. He’d confessed a long time ago that she’d been the first woman he’d ever lusted after, the _ only _ woman he’d ever wanted a relationship with, and she was fine enough with that. She worried more about him having someone looking out for him, someone treating him well, than she worried about who he was sleeping with over there. And Schoonover, by her assessment, was a good man for Frank, the kind of commanding officer who gave a damn about him not just as a body to follow orders but as a person, a human being.

He didn’t tell her everything, but he thinks she knows more than he’s said anyway. He thinks she knows, really, how much he really does need someone to take care of him.

Cerberus is a small enough outfit that when they get R&R it’s all of them taking off. Sometimes they’re so far out in the weeds, they’re still piled in on one another, and the truth is, none of them mind it all that much. Russo and Davis will sit around a bitch about all the pussy they could be getting, but the fact is that everyone on this team does damn good in isolation, in living out here with just the unit. 

When it’s like that, it’s… there’s more anxiety around getting that considering, burning look from Schoonover, but Frank’s been serving under the man since he was eighteen, a cocky, mouthy brat who barely knew which end of the gun to hold. When Schoonover gives him a look, he jumps to obey before a word ever needs to be said. He trusts the Major, trusts him to make sure they don’t get caught.

Times like this, these rare days when R&R lines up with being on a base close enough to stable civilian populace, when everyone but Frank and Gunner just about scramble to sign out of roll off looking to get drunk, or high, or laid, or whatever combination of the three they can manage, when Frank doesn’t have to do more than ask Gunner to run off base for supplies no one actually _ needs _, these are easier times. There’s a chance still, of someone catching them -- God knows Gunner probably suspects -- but it’s easier. Less of a gamble.

Less of a need to worry about keeping himself goddamn silent, about sneaking a shower in close quarters with fifteen other men all in each other’s space, without someone seeing the fingerprint bruises on his hips or his thighs, without anyone wondering why he’s out of breath and shaken. 

He waits five minutes after Gunner agrees run for -- what the hell did he ask for this time? Candy or jerky or some goddamn thing -- before letting himself into Schoonover’s quarters. 

“All's well,” Schoonover asks, almost dismissive, shuffling papers across his desk, always working, never sparring Frank a glance until he’s sure, until the moment is… is secured. It’s consideration as much as it’s distance, and it makes something in Frank squirm and writhe. To be not only known but in this way handled, like a variable perfectly placed in some grand equation, makes him feel secure in a way he can't quite define, and that he finds nowhere else.

"Yes, sir," Frank says, folding his hands behind him, standing straight-backed by the door, always wary that he's misread, always certain, in that yellow, squirming part of him, that this will be the time Schoonover laughs him out of the room. He'll be thirty-six goddamn years old next week, and here he is slinking into this man's office looking for someone to call him a good boy.

Then, as always, Schoonover turns in his chair, seat swiveling smoothly so he’s facing Frank, and Frank can tell at a glance that of the many things this man might be thinking of doing to him, laughing at him isn’t on the list. Schoonover’s eyes are bright with interest and a sort of patient hunger, and the amused little smile and raised eyebrow make Frank tense in a wholly different way than his own apprehension managed.

"Is that what you call me when we're alone, Frank?"

Patient, magnanimous in his good mood. Frank’s tension unravels a little more even as he feels his face redden. It makes him feel a pleasant sort of embarrassed, the only anxiety he’s ever known that doesn’t make him want to claw his way out of his skin or murder whoever made him feel it. Frank swallows and shakes his head, ducking in an unconscious effort to make himself smaller. 

“Sorry, Daddy,” he says, mutters. “Everybody else left. Night on the town. Billy said he found a couple decent bars last time we were here.”

It’s a report, but it’s also an act. It’s a set up, it’s a return to an alternate version of who they are. This is sixteen years and change of acting coming to bear, and Frank is eager. He’s always so damn eager for this man. 

“But not you, huh? You wanted to hang around?”

Frank swallows, glances at his CO, the man who taught him everything he knows about killing, about self control, about dedication and sacrifice. Schoonover is leaning back in his chair, lazy and leonine, that hungry smile on his face, hands on his spread knees. Frank looks quickly back at the floor and shakes his head. 

“Wanted to spend some time with you,” he says quietly, and it’s true enough, but it’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is, it’s been three months of violence and screaming and blood and fear and adrenaline and loss, three months with nothing kinder than Russo’s gallows humor and Gunner’s hand on his shoulder in a passing bracing squeeze. Frank wants time with Schoonover, sure, but he also just wants someone to touch him, kind and gentle, no wounds, no bullets, no post-mission fight-flight-or-freeze. After a second, he manages to cough up the rest of his confession; “I missed you, Daddy.”

"Well, I've got some emergency work that came in a while ago. You think you can sit quiet while I finish up?"

Fidgeting, Frank makes a face but nods, and bites back the impulse to try to barter. Schoonover wouldn't make him wait unless it was actually important, not when they've both been waiting for three goddamn months, and he's not so spoiled or so hard-up that he'd risk something that actually matters. 

As always, Schoonover seems to read him perfectly, no words necessary as he shifts a little in his chair and studies Frank. 

"On second thought," he says, patting one thigh, "why don't you come over here? I just had an idea, how you could help me out and we can make sure you stay nice and quiet."

Anybody else, Frank would hesitate. Hell, his own wife talking to him that way, sugar sweet and so patient, he'd be looking for the catch, the hidden threat.

Here, now, he doesn't so much as pause, crossing the room in a few quick steps and getting on his knees when Schoonover rolls his chair to one side and tells him with a look it's what's expected. He gets under the desk, hidden in the footwell, noticing that the middle drawer has been removed. He thinks the logical excuse would be to give the Major a little extra leg room; he's a powerful man, tall and long legged. 

A selfish, greedy part of him delights in thinking, secretly, that the drawer was removed for this, for him, so it's more comfortable for them both. 

"Hands on my thighs," Schoonover orders, but the order is the soft, gentle sort, a reminder of a well-learned lesson rather than a fresh command. Frank obeys before the words are even all the way out of Schoonover's mouth. He's compliant, he knows his place; he knows this man and everything he likes. 

Big hands work open that belt, unzip the fly, fish out that cock, thick and heavy and still soft. That's okay. After all these years, Frank knows this cock just about as well -- maybe better -- than he knows his own. He's never been asked to get Schoonover (Daddy, his mind corrects, sliding into the act now, never been been asked to get his Daddy) hard with his mouth before, but there's something about the idea that puts a static-burst of pleasure at the base of his spine. He doesn't need more than the welcoming nudge of fingers against his skull before he's wrapped his lips around the tip and started to suck.

He hears a soft sigh, feels the pulse of his CO under his tongue and an answering throb in his own dick, and then the fingers on his head tighten, clutching the scant grip that can be managed on his shorn hair. "Take it all the way, baby boy," Schoonover rumbles, and it takes a little work but Frank does, working the soft length all the way into his mouth, reveling in the subtle, somehow intimate difference of doing it like this, how he's got his lips firm 'round the base and the head is only teasing into his throat, rather than shoved down it. 

The grip on his hair eases, and Schoonover, Daddy, hums in approval, petting him. "Now you stay just like that, sweetheart," he rumbles, almost absent again as he goes back to the work scattered over his desk. "You keep me warm till I'm finished up, okay?"

Frank can't answer and doesn't try. Daddy gave him an order and he'll just have to follow it. He knows, even with this being a new thing, he can't pull away to swallow or ease the discomfort in his legs from being folded under him like this; he has to do his best to swallow around the cock filling his mouth, hearing the dirty wet sound of his throat working around the intrusion each time and feeling the gentle hitch of Daddy's hips each time. He likes that, likes that even in this stillness he's making Daddy feel good; he thinks if he hadn't been told to keep his hands in place he'd probably have his own fatigues open, be jerking himself off, because Daddy might not be fully hard yet, but Frank sure is. 

He has no idea how long he stays down there, utterly still but for the occasional attempt to swallow, silent but for that filthy, telling sound each time. However long it is -- a few minutes, really, no more than ten, but it feels like an hour at the least -- Daddy doesn't do any more than sigh a few times and give these sort of clipped, aborted thrusts into the heat of Frank's throat, forcing a little more of Frank's drool from the corners of his mouth each time. Then, very abruptly, Daddy shoves his chair back, one hand digging into the longest part of Frank's hair, right at the top, dragging him along so he has to scramble forward on his knees, whimpering, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as Daddy keeps his mouth nice and full. 

Daddy's finally getting hard, thickening in Frank's mouth as he's dragged, pulled almost entirely off and then shoved back down. "Get me hard, Frank. You know how, come on," Daddy growls, and his voice is dark, rolling thunder, promising a storm of things, wonderful, nasty things, and this is what Frank's needed. It's not tender, but Daddy is always rough before he's kind, he likes to play hard before he cuddles, and Frank can appreciate that. 

So he keeps up the effort even when the grip on his hair relaxes, fingers carding carefully now, gentle, soothing away the burn. He fucks his face on Daddy's cock, sucking his own slobber off it and moaning at the building ache in his jaw, the soreness of his throat being forced open again and again now. He wants to touch himself, but he doesn't, he can't, and when he makes himself open his eyes and roll his gaze up to try and see Daddy's face, Daddy's watching him with rapt fascination. Daddy looks at him like he's maybe the best goddamn thing in the world, best thing to have here and now, and then makes Frank's face go red all over again, whimpering softly.

"Fuck, you don't miss a trick, do you," Daddy breathes, stroking over his scalp, petting along behind his ear. "Best cocksucker I ever met. Perfect, sweetheart, my perfect cocksucker."

It makes Frank whine, the praise going straight to his dick, and he thought he wanted Daddy to fuck him today, thought he wanted his face in the mattress and his ass fucked open in that slow, thoughtful way Daddy had when he was feeling sweet, but now all he can think is how bad he needs to taste it when Daddy cums, needs it like a man needs water in the desert; he's begging for it, he's so goddamn _ thirsty_. 

Really, it's a relief when Daddy gets both hands on him again, heels of his hands firm against Frank's temples, fingers around his crown, holding him still so Daddy can thrust once, twice, deep as he can, cutting off Frank's air and reveling in the flutter of his throat when he chokes before pulling him back just enough to cum on his tongue, messy and wet. Frank makes another pitiful noise, swallowing, working the head with his tongue to get as much of the taste as he can, until Daddy gently, insistently pushes him off and back.

Without thinking, Frank sits back on his heels and angles his head back, mouth open and tongue out to show that he's a good boy who always swallows.

"Now there's my special good boy," Daddy growls, and Frank is so lucky, he's so goddamn _ lucky_, because Daddy doesn't sound tired or dismissive at all now, he sounds like he's ready to play. Frank knows his face is a mess now; there's a slick of drool and probably worse that escaped smeared around his mouth and down his chin, but he grins anyway, breathing hard now that he's got the freedom to do so. "I'd say a performance like that deserves a reward, huh? You want a treat, Frankie?"

Frank's out of breath and his throat feels scraped raw, so when he tries to speak his voice fails at first. He licks his lips, swallows, and tries again. "If you have time."

The smile that gets is sharp, predatory, and when Daddy nods toward the bed, Frank climbs to his feet, teeth grit against an embarrassing noise at the strain of his dick, hard and confined. He doesn't wait for direction, just climbs onto the bed, hands and knees, dropping onto his elbows and letting his spine curve because he knows Daddy likes his ass, likes having easy access to it.

Behind him, he hears the growl of Daddy’s zipper and feels a shiver work along his back, a curl of heat in his guts even though he knows the zipper is going up, not coming down. That’s fine; they’ve got two hours more time alone together at the least, only the smallest chance of Gunner returning a little sooner than that, and they’ve been doing this long enough that Frank knows his Daddy can make him feel good without sticking his dick in him at all. 

A drawer opens, Daddy rummaging through it, huffing, and moving to open a different drawer. Another night, Frank might have some bratty thing to say, might tease about not having his shit stowed so as to be able to grab anything he needs blind, you call yourself a soldier; he might flip himself over and make a show of getting into his own pants and jerking himself slow and lazy because he can't wait anymore and Daddy's being slow, maybe so Daddy would shove him down and spank him, maybe just to hear him growl. 

He doesn’t want to do that tonight; he doesn’t want to be a brat, he just wants to be good, be made to feel good. 

Daddy sits on the edge of the bed, the weight of him making Frank shuffle his knees a little further apart so he doesn’t over balance into Daddy’s lap, and almost immediately Daddy’s hand is on his leg, just a steady grip on the curve of his calf. Frank hums a soft sound, enjoying the way those thick fingers knead at the muscle, the pleasant sense of tension all wound through him and the promise of relief just that little touch brings.

"I think you deserve something real nice, Frank. Been so patient for me," Daddy mutters, and Frank closes his eyes and nuzzles his cheek into the coarse blanket. He doesn't know if it's just the last few hours being referred to here or the months Frank's been quietly, calmly holding back from trying to sneak alone time before Schoonover signaled that he was interested, but he knows which option he _ prefers_. 

It's always nice when Daddy acknowledges how much effort, how much restraint Frank shows. Nice to feel like Daddy has been aware of the time passing, been looking for the opportunity to get Frank alone. 

Fingers hook under the waistband of his trousers, nails scraping the small of his back, and then his trousers are being yanked down in a series of quick jerks. The end result isn't particularly comfortable, pants taunt around his thighs, and Frank can't help thinking how embarrassing it will be if he cums like this, having to cross the base in trousers wet with his own spend. It's an odd sort of anxiety, enticing in spite of not just the potential humiliation but danger of it. 

It's difficult to worry too much about it, not like this, not with Daddy distracting him with firm hands on his ass. Daddy takes care of him, always -- they've been doing this for so long that Frank can't imagine that he'd let anything happen that would risk them getting caught.

The bed shifts, frame creaking and mattress rocking as Daddy moves again, one hand pushing Frank's shirt up his back, baring more skin. Daddy is warm, curling over him, kissing the divot of his tailbone, holding him spread with one hand, the other pressing sharp into the dense muscle of Frank's thigh, encouraging him to move back toward the edge of the bed as Daddy moves to kneel there. 

Frank knows what's coming, his stomach hot with anticipation, skin prickling, teeth sharp on his own lip to keep him quiet when Daddy sighs that soft, approving sound and licks, broad and noisy over his hole. His hands settle on Frank's cheeks, holding him spread as he repeats the motion, again and again. When he growls and shoves himself closer, Frank moans outright and bites on to the back of his hand. Just because they're probably alone doesn't mean it's okay to take risks.

"Can't get pussy like this anywhere else," Daddy growls, and Frank's heart does something at that, tight and aching at the almost worshipful tone, the appreciation made plain, the sense that he's somehow special, inherently. That he's good, that he's as much what Daddy wants -- maybe needs -- as Daddy is what Frank wants. "Taste so good, Frank. Worth the wait."

Reduced to panting and ugly, hungry noise, Frank does his best to keep still and be good, feeling his balls tighten, the wet of his dick soaking into his underwear so he just has to hope whatever sign marks the front of his pants, if any, is small or faint enough not to be immediately telling. Daddy eats him out like there's never been a better meal put in front of him, growling the occasional word of praise, teeth nipping at the sensitive inner curve of his ass, tongue probing into him. It draws out, as it always does, into something timeless and perfect, until Frank's drifting on that pleasure, orgasm a hazy possibility distant on the horizon he's too lazy to chase but desperately wants. 

Then, Daddy leans back, smacking his lips and hums that satisfied sound that makes Frank feel so good it almost doesn't matter that he's not being touched anymore. 

Frank uses the time it takes Daddy to move back on the bed to catch his breath, settle himself. His legs feel unsteady, like if he tries to stand they'll shake out from under him, but he knows Daddy will want him to get up, sooner rather than later; get up and undress proper. 

Sure enough, a few seconds pass and then Daddy runs his knuckles over the back of Frank's leg, right above where his fatigues are digging into his thighs, voice rough when he tells Frank to get up.

Sure enough, Frank stumbles on his feet, thighs quivering, knees refusing to hold steady as he quickly kicks his boots off and shoves his pants and underwear down. His ass feels wet, slick and nasty with spit in a way that shouldn't be sexy and yet absolutely is, at least in the moment. Daddy's eyes linger on Frank's shirt and without a word said, Frank yanks it over his head and off, so he's standing there on shaking legs in nothing but socks and his tags, awaiting instruction.

Daddy likes making him beg; he likes making Daddy tell him, explicitly or in teasing hints, what's going to happen next.

After a moment, Daddy hums, sitting full on the bed now with his legs stretched out before him, back against the headboard. He pats his thigh and Frank's heart skips for a second, a number of appealing thoughts forming and dispersing before he can let himself examine them. Daddy is still dressed, entirely -- he's even still in his boots, and though Frank can see some sign of arousal, he's not fully hard again. The idea of being asked to ride him, something they've done many times and in a variety of specific conditions, is appealing but unlikely. 

"I want you to lay down across my lap, Frank," Daddy says, and this isn't exactly different, but it's not quite how they usually do it either, and Frank's usually been on much worse behaviour. The idea of a spanking isn't unwelcome, whether he deserves one or not, and even if it was, Frank always obeys. His Daddy takes care of him, all he has to do is follow orders.

The pressure of his cock, hard and hot and wet at the tip, against Daddy's clothed thigh makes Frank groan softly, hungry for more. The hand that settles, gentle and warm, on the curve of his ass, is unexpected, and when Daddy gives him a pillow he shoves it under his head and wraps his arms around it, shoving his face into it. When that grip shifts, Frank tenses a little, anticipating pain, but he gets a pleasant thrill instead, slick fingers pushing against his spit-soaked hole, teasing to slick him up outside. 

Frank's always had a thing for hands, men's hands in particular, and Daddy's hands especially have become a fixation. They're so strong, callous, rough, thick fingers that force him to feel every ridge of knuckle as they push past his rim. Frank gasps, hitching his hips down against Daddy's thighs and curling his toes tight as the first one pushes in.

It feels so good, and then Daddy flexes his finger, pulling him gently open, and Frank whimpers into the pillow. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of this man working him slowly open, one finger then two, pressed in deep and massaging until Frank’s gasping and fighting the urge to squirm back on the steady thrust of those fingers. He can feel, without seeing him and without a word between them, Daddy’s easy amusement at how quickly Frank’s brain shuts down, leaving him just a drooling vessel for pleasure.

He’s so hard, and when Daddy pushes a third finger into him, he gives up and jerks his hips hard against Daddy’s thigh, earning a gratifyingly pleased sigh. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” Daddy says, gracious and kind as his fingers keep pushing in deep, stretching Frank wide and grazing against his prostate, not quite enough but so goddamn cose. “You wanna make a mess, you go right ahead.”

Gasping and shuffling his legs a little farther apart, Frank tries to angle himself into the deep dig of Daddy’s fingers, but Daddy keeps his angle, frustratingly not enough, and Frank knows he’s doing it on purpose, knows he’s being teased, and can’t find it in him to be mad about it. Daddy will give it to him proper when he’s ready, and Frank, for all his impatience in other things, likes these rare moments of indulgence between them being drawn out.

“Look at you, sweet thing,” Daddy croons, and Frank’s face is hot in the pillow. “You take it so good, let me do anything I want to you. I could put my whole fist in here and you’d beg me for more, wouldn’t you, baby boy?”

The idea excites him, makes Frank gasp an eager, willing sound and then bury his face back in the safety of the pillow. Fact of the matter is that Frank likes having Daddy inside him, however he can get him. The idea of getting so much, of being punched open and stretched around Daddy's thick forearm, fist buried in his guts, is too good to even be shameful. 

"Well," Daddy says, thoughtful and indulgent as his thumb does something sinful, pressing into the space between Frank's balls and stretched-open hole, "Maybe I'll save that for your birthday."

There's something so good about that, the promise of it, of more later, mixed with the wet squelch of lube and the stretch and press of thick fingers fucking him open, missing what he needs by less than an inch. Frank feels like he's on a hair trigger now, shivering with the effort to keep from humping against Daddy's thigh. He lets himself be teased another long minute and then lifts his head, whining through grit teeth.

"Daddy, please," he says, effort that has him red-faced and teary-eyed. "So close, Daddy, please, please…"

Daddy laughs, low and pleased, and Frank feels it in the core of him, deep inside, like something to treasure. It's not mean, that laugh, and when Frank gives up and squirms back on those fingers, the growl he gets is one of approval. "Go on, sweetheart," Daddy purrs, changing the angle, hitting Frank right where he needs now, fingers trembling like he's playing vibrato each time they sink in deep. "Give it up, c'mon. Show Daddy how much you like it."

Frank's hips jerk, little aborted thrusts against Daddy's firm thigh as his arms tighten around that pillow. He shoots off just like that, blowing rope against the rough fabric of his CO's thigh, cumming so hard it leaves him breathless and moaning this horrible, gutted sound at the continued motion of Daddy's hand. 

When it's over, when Daddy pulls his fingers free, his other hand petting soothingly over the small of Frank's back, Frank collapses, strings cut, all his tension gone, brain blissfully silent for a few moments. He doesn't move until Daddy nudges him, and then only crawling carefully to stretch out proper on the bed, taking his time coming back to himself.

He's aware enough to know Schoonover leaves the bed for a moment, hazy, post-orgasm thoughts filtering back in to remind him who they have to be once he leaves. Then Schoonover is back in the bed behind him, stretched out against his back in just his undershirt and boxers, one powerful arm around his waist, hand slightly damp and smelling of the harsh, astringent soap they're provided by the base, and Frank sighs and relaxes against him. 

"Goddamn shame you already ran off and got married," Schoonover mutters, kissing at Frank's shoulder, fingers spread as Frank presses his hand over the back of Schoonover's. "You'd make a damn good wife."

Frank snorts, trying to shove aside the warm, sweet feeling the words put in his chest. There's something, always, about compliments from this man, the sincerity of them, the fact that better than anyone, Schoonover knows who Frank really is, all parts of him, and Schoonover has never found it necessary to judge him, or mock him, or fear any part of him. 

Schoonover has seen the best and worst of him, seen him covered in the mud and blood and filth of the job, heard him screaming, heard him at the very last edge of sanity, scrambling to keep himself together. Schoonover knows who Frank is, and he approves of him, his violence, his romanticism, his desire to belong to and kept by someone. 

Schoonover knows Frank, and Frank knows after all the years served under him that he can trust Schoonover better than just about anyone.

"Don't laugh, pretty boy," Schoonover chuckles. "Minds are changing. I'd put up a rainbow flag for you. Wouldn't have to leave my wife back home when he's the best damn Marine in the service."

"Shut up with that," Frank laughs, elbowing Schoonover and moving to sit up. He needs to clean up and get dressed again, get out of here before the rest of the unit returns to base. 

There's always a part of him, small and stupid and desperate for something he doesn't quite have words for, that wants Schoonover to tell him to stay, keep him in bed until morning. He wants Schoonover to keep him in general. There's so many reasons that's never going to happen, but it doesn't stop him from hoping every time, getting dressed, that he'll be told to stop, be asked to stay.

"Grab a book before you go," Schoonover says from the bed, watching him drag his pants back up, grinning at Frank's grimace of distaste. He needs a shower, before anything else, but he grabs a book off Schoonover's desk. 

There's no awkward parting conversation. No need to insinuate a next time or a later. That's not who they are and it's not how this goes. He's got the book, which provides enough of an excuse if anyone sees him walking back to the barracks, and Schoonover doesn't even bother with a goodbye, and Frank doesn't look for one. That's how this works and this is how it always goes. 

Out in the common area, Gunner is lounging in what could generously be called an easy chair, if one ignores the fact that the government provided furniture is designed for durability rather than comfort. He's reading his Bible, frowning, knapsack on the floor beside him, which he leans down and grabs to hold out to Frank as he's crossing the room, barely looking up at him. Frank takes the bag, full of whatever excuse crap he'd asked Gunner to pick up just to get him off base for a while, and raises his eyebrows at the distracted, unhappy expression on Gunner's face.

"You good, man?" Frank asks, genuinely concerned, and not just because Gunner's the most likely to have figured out at least the basics of what's going on between Frank and their CO. Gunner is usually the guy everyone could rely on for a smile. 

He's also the only guy in the entire outfit who's expressed any uncertainty or moral issue with what the Cerberus unit is doing.

"Th' book says Satan is out in th' world, a lion that seeks to devour," he says, meeting Frank's eyes. "Just thinkin' we all gotta be real careful, that we know a lion when he's walkin' beside us."

It makes Frank frown too, but it makes him frown every time Gunner gets on a biblical bend. He knows half the time it's a damn stupid joke and the other half of the time it's cryptic backwoods Kentucky wisdom. He decides that, whichever this is and whatever it's meant to mean, it's Gunner's problem, not his. 

He thanks Gunner for grabbing the supplies and makes some excuse to go back to the barracks and grab a shower, and he lets himself do what he's always done, what he's so good at doing.

He lets himself stop thinking, bury the emotion, the doubt, the worry, and turn only to the immediate future. He's got work to do, and there's no space for worries -- not about where and with whom he's sleeping, not about the Devil walking among them -- so it's better just not to think.

A good Marine doesn't need to think when he's got orders to follow, and Frank has made himself a very good Marine indeed.


End file.
